Wolf Hunt (13 page)

"Well," said Lou, "you're
right that it's not
our
fault..."

In addition to all of his other physical
discomfort, George felt his upper lip begin to twitch.

"...but I'm not gonna say anything else about
it," said Lou. "It's done and we can't take it back. We're just
gonna start from where we are and stick together."

"Thanks, buddy."

"However, I'm hoping that the plan involves
finding someplace to hide out until reinforcements arrive."

"It doesn't."

"Crap."

"We can't let him go on a killing
spree," said George. "He'll leave a trail of bodies just to prove
he's better than us. If we don't stop him, ten bucks says that the
police will find our names spelled out with somebody's
intestines."

Lou rubbed his forehead. "I've got a
headache."

"Mine's worse. If we recapture him, we'll be
okay. We'll have to do some apologizing, but they won't kill
us."

"Do you know that for sure?"

"No, but I do know that
they
will
kill us
if that werewolf gets away."

"So what are we gonna do, catch him in
a net?"

"Maybe."

"We can't catch a werewolf in a net! That's
ridiculous! We can't even run him down in a van!"

"He has weaknesses, Lou. I got him in the
crotch and it hurt him bad."

"Wolfman's got nards," said Michele.

"Excuse me?"

"'Wolfman's got nards.' It's
a quote from
The Monster
Squad
." She seemed to realize that George
was not amused. "Sorry. Trying to lighten the mood."

"What's your knife made out of?" George asked
Lou.

"Sterling silver."

"Our lead bullets made him bleed but they
didn't really slow him down. Your knife, though--that got him.
Maybe some of the werewolf lore is accurate. What do you think we
could do with pure silver?"

"Do you have any?"

"No. I'm sure we can't just drive to Wal-Mart
and pick up a clip of silver bullets, but we can get other stuff.
What else can you use to stop a werewolf?"

"We could dig a big pit and cover the top
with leaves," said Lou.

George shook his head. "We don't have time
for that."

"George, that was a joke. An obvious one. If
you're so far gone that you think I was being serious about the big
wolf pit, then maybe we're not in the best frame of mind to go on a
werewolf hunt."

"Okay, we need some silver," George said,
continuing as if he hadn't heard Lou's comment. "Maybe we can make
a tip for a spear or something. Jab it through his nards."

"That's actually not a bad idea."

"We need a jewelry store and a sporting goods
store. No problem."

"We drove by a bunch of antique stores when
we first got here."

"Perfect." George smiled, but then he
remembered the little boy who might be crouched next to his dead
mother right now, and his smile disappeared. He hoped the kid and
his brother wouldn't be separated if they went into foster
homes.

"You okay, George?" Lou asked.

"I'm fine. Delightful. Come on, let's go save
our lives."

* * *

The first antique shop was an absolute dump
of a place. Granted, any shop that sold old crap fit George's
definition of "dump," since he had a whole head full of bad
memories about his mom and grandmother dragging him around from
shop to shop, squealing in delight when they found more rare
garbage to display in their curiosity cabinets. He couldn't prove
it and didn't want to, but he was pretty sure that the first female
orgasm he'd ever witnessed was at the moment his grandmother found
an old coffee table. It stayed in her living room for twenty years
and wasn't any better than one she could have bought at a furniture
store for less money and without Grandpa having to spend six months
fixing it up.

The decrepit guy behind the counter had asked
if they'd been in a car accident, and George explained that, yes,
they had, and that they appreciated his concern. George asked about
silver, and the ancient guy had stared at him for a while, trying
to think. "No," he finally said, "but I've got some Silver Age
comic books. A buck each."

"No, thank you."

"Seventy-five cents."

"Sorry."

They thanked him and left the store. The next
one was only two shops down, so they jogged over there and went
through the rickety door. A bell tinkled as they entered. An old
lady sat on a rocking chair on the other side of the small shop,
reading a paperback novel and smoking a cigarette. George didn't
like or care about antiques, but he was pretty sure you weren't
supposed to smoke around them.

"You're not going to get blood on my stuff,
are you?" the old lady asked.

"No, ma'am. We'll be careful."

"Were you in an accident?"

"Yes. None of us are going to die,
though. In case you were worried."

"Anything I can help you find?"

"We're looking for silver. Pure silver, if
you've got it."

The old woman nodded and tapped some ashes
off her cigarette onto the ashtray that rested on the rocking chair
arm. "I've got plenty of silver. What do you want?"

"Anything you've got."

"Sounds desperate."

"No, we're just late for a wedding, mostly
because of the car accident." He gestured at Lou. "This jackass
forgot to pick up a gift."

"Please don't curse in my store."

"Jackass?" George decided to let it go.
"Anyway, we need a gift. The bride loves silver."

"All right." The old woman took another drag
from her cigarette, then stood up and walked over to the counter,
moving at an excruciatingly slow pace. George wanted to ask her to
speed it up, since people might be horribly mutilated while she
ambled over there, but figured that wasn't such a good idea.

"Do you have a restroom?" Michele asked.

"No."

George gave her a dirty look. She
probably assumed that George and Lou wouldn't prevent her from
going to the bathroom when this old lady was around to hear their
conversation. She really was going to end up in the cage if she
wasn't careful.

The old woman hobbled behind the counter,
then ducked out of sight. A few moments later, she stood back up
and set a wooden box on the counter. She raised the lid, revealing
dozens of rings.

"Great, great," said George. "Which ones are
silver?"

"The ones colored silver."

As a rule, George didn't hit old ladies,
though it was a rule for which he was momentarily inclined to try
to find a loophole. He quickly went through the selection, plucking
out ten or eleven of the rings.

"By the way, I don't take credit cards," the
old lady said.

"You don't?"

"Nope."

"In the twenty-first century, in a store full
of high-ticket items, you don't take credit cards?"

"The credit card companies charge me
service fees. Nobody ever got charged a service fee for
cash."

"Actually, ATM's do usually charge a service
fee for cash withdrawals. But that's fine. I'm not going to tell
you how to run your place."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

"What else do you have in silver?"

The old woman looked around. "Over against
that wall, there's a silver mirror."

"Good. Lou, go get that." Lou nodded and went
over to retrieve the mirror. "What else?"

"Well, let me see...are you Catholic?"

"We're whatever religion worships
silver."

"I've got this," said the woman, taking out a
silver crucifix that was about six inches long.

George picked it up and examined it. "This
Jesus kind of looks like Kenny Rogers."

"Don't blaspheme in my shop, please."

"I apologize. I was just commenting on the
fine production values here. How much?"

The lady thought for a moment. "Two hundred
dollars."

George looked at Michele. "Is that a good
deal?"

"How should I know?"

"Don't women know standard pricing on all
precious metals?"

"Sorry, I don't buy a lot of silver
crucifixes."

"Two hundred, deal," said George, "under the
condition that you never saw us. Plus we'll take the mirror and all
of the rings."

"This mirror isn't silver," said Lou,
scraping his fingernail along the edge. "It's just painted."

"Stop scraping my merchandise."

"Forget the mirror," said George. "But we'll
take all of the rings."

"Must be one big wedding."

"It is."

"Is that thing real silver?" asked
Lou, gesturing to a very small cross that dangled from a chain
bracelet on her wrist. "I mean, more real than the
mirror?"

"Yes, but it's not for sale."

George snorted. "It's not for sale, or you're
going to charge us a lot for it?"

"Five hundred dollars."

"We'll stick with the rest of the stuff,
thanks."

"No," said Lou. "We'll take it."

The old woman shrugged, removed the bracelet,
and handed it to Lou. Lou put it around his own wrist. George
rolled his eyes.

"All right. Anything else you're looking
for?"

"Do you sell nets?"

"You mean like fishnet stockings?"

"No. God no. Like a big net that you could
use to catch a...bear."

"Sorry. There's not a huge market for antique
netting."

"Thanks. Pay her, Lou."

Lou held the briefcase with the
sixty-three thousand dollars they'd taken from Douglas that
morning. They'd decided that leaving it unattended in a van with a
broken-out windshield was not the wisest course of action. Stealing
from it was probably not the best way to keep their own thumbs
unbroken, but they could replace the missing money before they
handed over the briefcase, and considering the extreme
circumstances it seemed perfectly justified.

Lou popped open the top of the briefcase,
keeping the contents hidden from the old woman's view. He snatched
out a few bills then closed the briefcase.

"Are you involved in organized crime?" the
old woman asked.

George nodded. "Knock twenty bucks off the
price of the crucifix, and nothing happens to your business."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

More Prey

"Why'd you do that?" George asked, starting
up the van.

Michele was relatively certain that she knew
what he was talking about. However, she didn't want to accidentally
confess to something else, so she feigned ignorance. "What?"

"You know."

"Really, I don't. And do we have time for
guessing games?"

"You asked the old woman about the
bathroom."

"So? Am I not allowed to pee?"

George cracked his knuckles, one at a time.
Next to her, Michele felt Lou's leg muscles tighten, as if he were
cringing. George drove away from the antique shop, looking
extremely stern. He was good at it. "You were trying to
escape."

"Did you see the place we were in? Did
it look like the kind of place to have a secret rear entrance? Let
me give you Women 101, George: when we go into a store, we usually
have to pee."

"This guy Ricky, who sets up our jobs--he
told me to lock you in the cage. I don't want to do that. Right
now, we can pretend that we're business partners, but when you try
something sneaky, it makes me feel that I need to take an extra
level of precaution."

"You don't."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Just needed to pee. I had to go
before the dogs attacked."

She was, of course, lying.
The antique store
might
have had a back exit. If not, she would've used the
opportunity to steal some kind of weapon. Unfortunately, George had
kept her close during the shopping adventure, and she hadn't been
given the chance.

To be perfectly honest, the cage seemed like
the safest place to be. If Ivan couldn't get out, he probably
couldn't get back in, and Michele was very close to raising her
hand and politely volunteering to be locked in there. It wouldn't
be that uncomfortable.

The problem, of course, would come when they
met up with the other bad guys. If she seemed to be on relatively
even ground with George and Lou, she might be able to still talk
her way out of this. If she was locked in a cage while George and
Lou introduced her...well, it was going to be difficult to sell the
idea of them being newfound business associates.

She really did have to pee, though.

The positive side to this whole thing, and
she did indeed feel that it was a positive side and not merely
self-delusion, was that there was an incredible story here. If she
survived the werewolf ordeal, she'd be on television twenty-four
hours a day for at least the next week. Book rights. Movie rights.
She'd donate a generous portion of her proceeds to the gas station
attendant's family, and perhaps to the families who'd tragically
lost their household pets in the dog attack, but as long as she
didn't get killed and her injuries didn't go much further than the
slashed-up shoulder, the danger would be worth it.

That said, she'd still try to get the
hell away from George and Lou, given the opportunity. She wasn't
crazy.

"We have a lot of problems right now," said
George. "Please don't cause more for us."

"I won't."

* * *

Ivan Spinner sat in a tree, feeling good
about life. He hadn't felt so good half an hour ago, when he
climbed up this tree; in fact, he'd been pissed off and even a
little ashamed. Why did he run away when that bozo Lou cut him?
Yeah, it hurt, but he should have ripped Lou's heart out, stuck it
on the end of his talon, and licked it like a Tootsie Roll Pop. It
would've been fine to murder Lou. That still left George as his
plaything.